


Extra-Large

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhibitionism, Gen, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester amply enjoys his retirement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extra-Large

**Author's Note:**

> A slightly cleaned-up series of kink meme fills I did a while ago at chubwinchesters on livejournal. Contains overeating and extreme weight gain (which the character enjoys). I know this is hardly a work of great literature, but comments/non-kink-shamey constructive criticism are very much appreciated! :)

It was going on three hours they'd been parked at Yang & Tetrazzini's 'Round-The-World Buffet House, and Dean was feeling fucking fantastic. He groaned happily and let loose another belch. Sam sighed, brow furrowed like the disapproving schoolteacher he might as well be possessed by. "You had enough yet?"

"Hell no." Dean patted the top of his belly. It jiggled even after he'd packed in five big plates of food. "See that, Sammy? Not gonna burst just yet. I've still got to get some more ribs and potatoes and lasagna in there before I even start thinking about pie."

Sam scowled. "At least do up your fucking pants before you go get more. I don't wanna watch you show the whole restaurant your gut."

Dean rolled his eyes. Bitch, bitch, bitch. "All right, all right. I get hungry, you know that." He stared at the zipper of his undone jeans. He could do this. It was just like a manageable but damn irritating demon.

"You weigh three hundred and fifty fucking pounds. You're not underfed, Dean."

"Three-thirty-nine," Dean snapped. Well, that was what the scale said two weeks ago. Sam might not be all that far off, not that he deserved the satisfaction of knowing it. Dean braced himself to attack the zipper. After a good thirty seconds of struggling and breathing out so hard he thought he might faint, he managed to get his jeans rebuttoned. He hauled himself to his feet, big full belly bulging out ahead of him as he waddled back toward the buffet.

He couldn't help but be satisfied to realize he was one of the fatter people lined up. Like any buffet worth going to, Yang & Tetrazzini's attracted its fair share of large customers, and he was finally getting to stack up pretty respectably. Dean heaped his plate with meat, potatoes, and a few token Caesar salad leaves to shut Sam up. Half the thin people in line seemed to have nothing better to do than stare at his belly; he threw around a few cocky winks and piled a bit more food on his plate to spite them.

Once he'd made it back to the table (where Sam was picking resignedly at the remnants of his salad), Dean unzipped his pants with an exaggerated sigh of relief and dove into the plate like it was his first. He hadn't packed on 90 pounds in a year on rabbit food, and he didn't know why Sam expected him to act like it in public.

Halfway through the plate he was getting pretty damn full; it felt damn good to take a break for a second and rub his big belly. He was really getting to like that thing. It might have started out as just a side effect of his big appetite and being able to spend as much time on the couch as he wanted without having to clear out ghost infestations -  but Dean was starting to get satisfaction from just seeing how much bigger he was getting.

Once he'd got through the plate, there had to be more meat before the pie. There was no question about that. Or about whether his pants would do up again.

"Sorry, Sammy... urrrp... it's not happening. Gotta go up like this."

Sam poised himself to bang his head on the table. Dean's shirt buttons were feeling pretty fucking strained, too, and it would be wishful thinking to think Sam didn't notice.

Dean lurched to his feet and headed for the food. He glanced down to see his shirt was straining and ridden up,  exposing his deep navel and a fair bit of gut. Stares and whispers followed his slow-moving progress through the buffet line, but Dean focused only on filling his plate.

As he strained to reach far enough to shovel ribs onto his plate, Dean heard a rip and looked down nonchalantly to see he'd lost two shirt buttons.

As Dean waddled back to the table, his fat gut leading the way, Sam put his head in his hands. "This is never happening again." Dean knew better.

***

Eight plates of dinner at Yang and Tetrazzini's was a new record, and Dean was really fucking proud. He might not be sure whether he was the fattest person in the restaurant - the lady sitting with her gangly little husband at the table right next to the fountain was pretty big. She was a lot shorter than Dean, though, and he couldn't quite figure out which of them probably weighed more. He could be sure about this record, though. He allowed himself an enormous unmuffled belch and rubbed his mostly-bare belly in lazy circles. "Time for pie."

"Dean," hissed Sam, "You can't go up there if you can't do up your shirt right. Buy clothes that fit."

"Then get it for me." Dean grinned triumphantly as a frustrated Sam sulked his way to the dessert table. He felt so damn big and heavy that it'd probably take ten minutes to haul his gut over there anyway. Things were working out well. And his clothes fit just the way he liked them.

He really felt huge, his belly almost touching the table, and he was interrupted in wondering whether he'd hit 425 yet by Sam's arrival with a promisingly large platter of assorted slices of pie.

"Here you go, Mr. Starving. Stop smirking at me like that. You'll either leave some food on your plate for once or you'll make a complete fucking pig of yourself. Your call."

"Bitch", Dean mumbled around a mouthful of lemon meringue.

He could almost feel his gut inching outward as he stuffed bite after bite of wonderful pie into it. "So... urrrp... full..." he moaned between slices. He didn't even register Sam's sarcastic response. He heard his belly gurgle in protest and groaned as he massaged it between bites. They were a team; it could do him a favour and deal with this.

Finally, every delicious crumb was packed into Dean's enormous belly. So engorged he felt semiconscious, Dean could only celebrate his victory with a resounding belch. He felt blissfully food-drunk and absolutely huge.

Sam gave his belly a poke, eliciting a half-pained moan. "Time to go, fatso. The waiter's been looking nervous for ten minutes. They've got reservations. There's a lineup. An _angry_ lineup."

It took a minute to penetrate Dean's overstuffed stupor. "Ughhh... so stuffed..." He tried to lever himself up, but his bulk was too heavy and cumbersome to lift an inch off the seat. He tried again, with no better results, and groaned in frustration and blissful discomfort.

"Fuck, Dean, you are such a pig. Don't tell me you can't get up." Neighbouring diners were turning their eyes toward the spectacle. Dean felt oddly thrilled - and incredibly heavy.

"Can't... ohhh... fucking move." Sam, avoiding the eyes of everyone in the room, stomped over and tried to pull Dean up. His belly just wedged against the table and he couldn't muster much of an effort to help Sam, who finally ceased his heaving.

Dean burped. "Sorry, Sammy, just ... urrrp... so fucking fat and full here..." His belly sloshed and wobbled as his big ass hit the seat again.

"I can see that, dammit!" The waiterly glares and incredulous stares were growing in intensity - and Sam practically had steam coming out his ears. What did he want, for Dean to hold himself back at the buffet? That wasn't happening. Maybe if he got so fat he couldn't fit into restaurant seating, Sam might be quiet once in a while.

Sam finally gave up and sat back down, glaring and passive-aggressively staring at his phone. Dean happily massaged his overfull belly, which sloshed and grumbled as it struggled to digest the enormous meal.

On his fourth try, just as the waiter looked about to pull out some sort of dagger, Sam finally levered his bloated brother out of the chair.

Dean felt stuporous and very, very fat, his huge gut bulging a few feet ahead of him. He could only take very slow, waddling steps, belching and gingerly rubbing his belly. He barely registered the muffled giggles followed him for the ten minutes it took for him to waddle out of the restaurant to the car.  (Sam, of course, looked like he wanted to sink into the ground.) He did manage to wink and say goodbye to the hostess, who thanked him graciously with very wide eyes.

Finally, Dean was sinking down into the passenger seat of the Impala, sighing in relief even though his belly was about an inch from touching the dashboard. Sam was glowering and silent as he turned the ignition.

Dean froze and stopped massaging his belly when he spotted the box of doughnuts sitting on the dashboard. He'd bought them for later, but they just looked too fucking delicious not to stuff himself with now.

Ignoring Sam's torrent of cursing, Dean slowly filled his belly with the dozen donuts, not even pausing when he felt his gut brush the dashboard. As he finished, a dazed grin crossed his face. He felt so fucking full, so fucking fat, and so fucking good. He couldn't even imagine budging.

As Dean lapsed into a food coma, he knew he was going to do this again and again. 500 pounds, here he came.

***

Dean grunted in frustration as his expansive belly wedged harder against the steering wheel. Maybe he shouldn't have broken into the fourth takeout container before he got out of the car. But he wouldn't be himself if he held back when he felt like eating. And of course it was fucking delicious.

He managed to swivel sideways a little and paused to catch his breath. It was hard enough to lever his bulk in and out of the Impala on an empty stomach these days. The seat struggled enough to accommodate his big fat ass - but his enormous belly was the really cumbersome thing, pressing up against the dash and wheel and weighing heavily on his thighs. (Sam bitched about how he couldn't possibly be able to steer the thing safely; Dean knew she knew what he wanted.) His full belly made moving that much harder and less appealing - and the fit that much tighter.

Dean let out an enthusiastic belch and gave his belly a pat, feeling it wobble. He loved the feeling of being heavy and full and comfortably pinned by his own bulk, but he wanted to get on the couch and stuff himself properly with the rest of the takeout and whatever else he could bitch at Sam to get him. He missed the whole buffet experience: he was too fat to fit into any booth in town, restaurant chairs were narrow enough to be an uncomfortably tight squeeze at best, and if he was going to stand up to get more food at the glorious stage of stuffed-but-not-nearly-done, there had better be three or four people there to help him up. So Yang & Tetrazzini's takeout it was. It was still delicious, and Sam was the only one who bitched at him when he found he couldn't get up for a few hours. Not that Sam was always the only one there when he stuffed his face. He'd found there were no shortage of women who were into the improved extra-large Dean Winchester. He couldn't blame them. And even if it weren't for sex, he sure as fuck wouldn't turn down a belly rub while being hand-fed donuts. (He really should call Katie again; last weekend had been fucking incredible.)

Dean took a deep breath and strained to lever himself out of the seat. It was an oppressively tight squeeze, but he managed. He gave the Impala's side an affectionate pat, took a second to catch his breath, and waddled over to the passenger side to get the rest of the takeout boxes. He couldn't bend over as far as was convenient, but he managed to grab the boxes and lift them onto the shelf of his ponderous belly.

Soon Dean was sinking gratefully into the couch, thoroughly out of breath from hauling his 575 pounds from the Impala to the living room. He set the first takeout container on his belly and felt a wave ripple through his flab. Fuck, he'd gotten fat. Even his fingers were fat. It was pretty awesome. He grinned contentedly and embarked on stuffing his face.

After an hour or so, Dean groaned blissfully as he finished the last of his delicious haul. He gingerly patted the top of his stomach and let out a thunderous belch. He loved being so full. He felt half-drunk, like his body was too busy digesting to think too fast. He glanced proudly at the seven empty takeout containers he'd vanquished. So fucking good.

Dean grunted at Sam entering the room - he'd been off reading a book or some other girly shit - but his interest sparked when he spotted the three pies under Sam's arm.

"Here you go", grumbled Sam, and just as Dean thought Sam had given up bitching in his direction once and for all, his younger brother set the three glorious lemon meringue pies on the coffee table, at least two feet out of the reach of Dean's arm, and walked out.

Dean tried to lunge for the pies. He didn't budge. He was so stuffed and obese that he was helplessly pinned down by his massive belly. He waved his fat arms around futilely for a minute or two, pausing for another loud belch. "Fucking hell!", he grumbled. He needed that pie.

"Sam!" he snapped. "Put those where I can reach. Bitch."

Sam strode back in, looking like he thought he'd achieved some sort of victory. "Fuck, Dean, you're practically a beached whale." _Fuck yeah_. "So? Give me those pies." Sam walked over deliberately slowly and placed the pies on Dean's belly one by one, watching it wobble as he set each one down. He walked smugly out of the room, but he didn't look half as smug as Dean felt. Dean belched again and began stuffing himself with pie.


End file.
